a blurb from the writing exercises::
Her hands were getting so old looking.
They were marked with the cracks and creases of someone
who had seen more than their share of time. And yet, still she remained.
He was gone. They were gone. The babies were grown up and
carried babies of their own. And yet, still she remained.
Some days, she just sat on the couch in the pale sunlight
and stared at her own two hands. At the ring he gave her so long ago,
that day that they stood in the tiny whitewashed church up west, neither his nor
her church, but a church that would marry them nonetheless.
She wore her sister's wedding gown (that wedding would soon fail but no
one would admit that they knew it at the time) and the priest got her name wrong.
They had no money for flowers but for the bluebells he stole from the
neighbor's yard that morning. They were still wet with dew when he pressed
them into her hand.
bursting out of her chest. She could barely contain herself, constrain herself, restrain herself
from twirling, from dancing, from kissing him harder than hard in the church of someone else's God
now that he was truly, really and deeply, hers.
And now he is gone.
Flesh from flesh, bone from bone. Memory from memory. Dustmotes dancing in pale
sunlight and the creases in her hands telling her story after story. This is how she spent
her days now.
oh...and a new haircut...hello bangs...i have missed you...